Medication
by Senko Wakimarin
Summary: Somethings help you mourn, somethings help you move on. Sometimes all you need is a little TLC, or Tobi's Loving Care. DeiTobi fluff with a hint of SasoDei


**Medication**

**By Senko**

Sometimes, Deidara feels he's becoming Sasori. He hears the sharpness in his voice when addressing Tobi, or realizes he's agitated far too quickly by the boy's antics, and he's ashamed to say it, but he knows he sounds just like the puppet master. The first time he hears that phrase leave his mouth

_Tobi, you little shit!_

he spends the next few hours uncharacteristically silent, unwilling to apologize to the masked ninja, but not wanting to hear anything else like that spouting from his own lips. Tobi, of course, only hushed for a minute or two before picking something new to blather on about for an hour or so, unfazed as always.

_It's not fair_, he thinks sometimes, feeling that this slow metamorphosis is somehow part of Sasori's plan for immortality. Like the puppeteer is living again through him in some strange form of undead parasitism. _I think I'm getting grey hairs…_

Deep down he knows the similarities between this partnership and the last only extend so far. Tobi is no artist, and 'senpai' is hardly a replacement for 'dana'. They don't even argue as much as Deidara had with Sasori. No, its not really the same at all. But sometimes, it feels close enough.

Looking back, he can hardly believe his reaction to his master's death. Had he actually _laughed_? Made one last joke? Of course. He'd acted just as if nothing were wrong for months after Sasori met his messy end in that clearing, continued laughing and quite likely irritating the hell out of everyone he spoke with, because it took that long for it to sink in that Sasori was gone.

Forever. Not coming back. The end.

Which in itself had to be some kind of joke. One made in bad taste, obviously, but a joke nonetheless. Because Sasori had that plan, you see, that masterminded plan; he was going to live forever, he was his own master piece. A work of art, everlasting. How could he just die?

Beyond that, Sasori had promised. On the rare occasion that they ever had a serious conversation that didn't result in an argument, when they had put aside the pretences that came with working as shinobi and wanted criminals, Sasori had always promised forever.

"Forever is death," Deidara had once warned him, and how bitter those words now sounded in his own ears. What a stupid bit of irony, and Sasori had only laughed, running his fingers through Deidara's hair in that certain way that somehow claimed gentle ownership; laughing because he thought he knew better, not arguing because sometimes it was alright to just humor the other.

"And who's dead now, un?" The blonde utters a harsh laugh, and it's hollow and not really all that funny, more angry than anything. Angry because he won't be sad for that man's death, he won't give him that satisfaction. He won't admit, not even to himself, how much it hurts; that he'd taken comfort in Sasori's laugh, that he'd secretly believed every word out of Sasori's mouth. He would never admit how much he hated being right about this.

His hand grips the little cup before him, perhaps a bit to hard, because it shakes and some of the clear liquid spills out onto his fingers. He ignores that, instead bringing the vessel to his lips and swallowing the liquid. It burns, but he ignores that too, because it's like a drug to numb everything away.

He doesn't want to admit how much it aches to know that Sasori will never barge into their room, covered in ash and yelling about whatever explosive Deidara had left out to ruin something. He doesn't want to think about how much it hurts to know that Sasori is never going to run his fingers through his hair again, that he'll never get to complain that his hands are too cold, that they'll never get to kiss again.

Instead he'd rather focus on the heat in his throat and the fuzzy feeling in the back of his head as he drinks. He won't think about how he's probably drinking too much, and he won't think about how worried Tobi probably is by now.

Automatically his hand goes to the bottle, refilling the little cup. He wonders vaguely why he doesn't just drink from the bottle, and banishes the fleeting though of 'Sasori-dana wouldn't approve'. A soft knock comes from the door, the same shy sound that's reoccurred steadily for the last half hour, with a few minutes between each round. He ignores it- Tobi will go away eventually; he always does.

Tobi- how he wanted to hate the boy. So eager to replace Sasori, so enthusiastic to bury his memory. It wasn't fair, either, because he _couldn't_ hate the kid.

Very slowly, the door cracked open. A timid voice called his name, but the blonde didn't hear it. His fuzzy mind circled, calling up unwanted images of Sasori, of their too short time together… kisses and half murmured endearments… arguments and the occasional fight. None of it, ever again, and as if to make him mad with its repetition his brain plucks out the sweetest moments, the strongest times. Never again, they say, a cruel voice in his brain teasing over and over. Never again.

"Deidara-senpai?" Soft, tentative, so very concerned. The blonde's hand tightens on the cup and he drinks, ignoring the voice. It would leave.

Pouring another cup, his brow furrows as the last drops trickle out. There was no way it was already empty… he'd only had a few glasses.

The foot steps all the time drew closer, small careful steps, as if Tobi were scared of approaching him. Still, he was, and when his gloved hand fell on Deidara's shoulder, the blonde jumped a little. "Senpai, are you-"

One crystalline blue eye glares blearily up at the boy, accusing. "Forever. He said forever."

The masked boy pulls away a little, and Deidara smiles slightly at the nervousness Tobi managed to communicate without ever showing his face.

"Seh… senpai, I really think… you need to stop."

How angry that tone made him! He waves a hand as if to hit his partner and succeeds only in nearly falling out of his chair. Tobi didn't move away, actually reached out a hand to try and stabilize his superior, holding him up by the arms even as the blonde tries to wrench away. Somewhere in the brief struggle, Deidara's elbow strikes the cup from the table, sending it crashing to the floor. The sake splashes against both of their bare feet.

"I'm worried about you, Deidara-senpai!" Holding the artist tightly by the shoulders, shaking him slightly as if to emphasize. Or perhaps he's just trying to keep his hold on the slimmer man. Either way, Deidara winces slightly, the grip on his thin shoulders strong enough to be painful.

_Why,_ he wonders, staring at the masked boy. _Why bother? You've got Zetsu to cling to, and you're finally in Akatsuki like you wanted. _The hands on him slowly slackened, but when he tries to pull away again all he manages to do is stumble against Tobi's surprisingly solid chest. Suddenly he's biting his lip, trying not to let the tears he can feel in his eye fall. His fingers cling to the thick fabric and he finds himself burying his face against Tobi's shoulder.

"He promised…un."

Despite the sharp intake of breath betokening his shock, the newest member wraps an arm around his senpai's trembling shoulders, holding him carefully. It's obvious that he isn't exactly sure what he's supposed to do or say… he's never had someone clinging to him this way before, and it's not exactly comfortable. He's not exactly afraid of the drunken artist, but seeing him like this puts him on edge.

"…I'm sorry, Senpai," He murmurs softly, leaning his face against the silky blonde hair he can't really feel, "but doing this is not going to help."

Though he doesn't pull away, the bomber's limbs stiffen. "He wasn't supposed to die."

Zetsu was always better at saying things exactly as they were. Tobi had never gotten the knack of telling people bad news, even if they already knew what it was. It's uncomfortably cold in the room, except where Deidara is pressed against him, and that's too warm. "…I know… but you have to be stronger now, Senpai."

It wasn't fair, how comforting the arms around him were. It wasn't fair to him, and it certainly wasn't fair to Sasori's memory. But no matter how he wants to, the bomber is unable to pull away. "I don't want to be the strong one, un." He whimpers, squeezing his eye closed against the tears and wincing at how childish he sounds.

As if he could really understand, Tobi holds him, a hand pressing against his scalp. "Getting drunk won't bring Sasori-san back, Senpai."

Drunk- he never used to drink to get drunk. He only drank when Sasori wanted to, which was rarely. Maybe it wouldn't help bring the puppeteer back, but it certainly helped him forget he was gone… except it wasn't anymore. Not tonight, at least. Tonight the booze brought _more_ memories, vibrant memories that taunted and harassed him.

"Senpai… don't you think you have enough to bare…" Tobi murmurs, his voice soft and soothing, comforting like only Sasori had ever managed to be, and Deidara bites back a sob. "… without becoming an alcoholic?"

A soft whine cuts through the silence, and it takes the blonde a moment to realize that it came from him. The tears he's fought so well against for weeks finally break loose with that low keen of pain, spilling down his face and soaking into Tobi's cloak. The boy doesn't pull away in disgust, as some ninja might have, nor does he try and say anything to comfort him, as a civilian might have. He arms around him are steady, bracing, and one gloved hand runs slowly through his hair.

It's not like being with Sasori, not even close… but it helps.

It's like medicine.

(Haha, so this is also for Amy-soh, my darling little begger. She wanted some fluffy DeiTobi and some Angsty Deidara... and I wanted an alchoholic, so we all got what we want...

Right, so Review... or whatever.)


End file.
